


Sleep Apnea

by EvieSmallwood



Series: the midnight chronicles [2]
Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, boris is sad, flangst city bois, if only he were like this when he’s sober, poor Boris, theo is a clingy drunk, two soft gays and one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieSmallwood/pseuds/EvieSmallwood
Summary: “I want you.”Boris does not need to be told twice. He will do whatever for Theo. Never has he been so willing. Boris grew up getting calledupryamyy trakh,stubborn fuck, yes. Boris does what he wants, when he wants. Nothing for anyone.Anything for Theo.





	Sleep Apnea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewolfmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolfmoon/gifts).



It gets easier.

It gets easier for Theo to pretend he doesn’t feel the things he does; to ignore the rushes and quickened pace of his heart, to quell down the way his breath catches, to suffocate that _something_ he so constantly feels in the pit of his belly.

It’s not there. It’s not there, just like the painting in his bedroom. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

Only it really isn’t.

* * *

For Boris, it is open.

It is gaping like a wound, seeping out. So plain to see, yet Theo never does. Sometimes Boris doubts it, himself; good friends, that’s what they are. Nothing more, yes?

Only sometimes Theo looks at him; low and heavy and not in a friend way. Boris knows friend looks, especially with Theo; he knows bright eyes that crinkle at the corners when he laughs, and a constant challenge—they are competitive, sometimes, with each other.

Race you to the end of the street, Boris will say. Theo will get that fiery look and blast off before Boris even says go, and that’s okay. Boris is fast, his legs are longer. He always wins. Theo always looks put out, too, and that is funny. Like he expects one time he might win, but never does.

They get over their anger quickly. Boris knows the look of anger; flushed cheeks, a lividity lighting up Theo’s face. He gets all scrunched up in the mouth like he wants to say all these things, yet rarely does he ever. When he yells, it’s short lived and reluctant. He is afraid of driving Boris away, of breaking him, and Boris knows this. He sees it in the regret and the quickened way Theo always, always apologizes after yelling.

He never hits. At least, not with real hatred behind it. Boris likes that, a lot.

Always Boris was getting hit as a child. Upside the head, hard in the stomach, rough on the shoulder. Never were there soft touches, good touches.

The looks were always of distaste and sadness in Boris’s house. Still they remain so. There is no brightness there. All of the corners are drowned in shadow; there are rooms never used and a staleness in the air. Bad, bad place.

Boris likes Theo’s house better. Boris likes Theo better than he likes his family. He has no problem saying this, thinking it, knowing it. A simple truth. Theo is better by miles.

Theo is warm. There is something inside him most people don’t have. A special something. Most people, they are all balanced. They are put together and not too sad and not too happy.

Theo is chaotic; he is laughing one minute and yelling _get your fucking feet of my table_ the next (only he doesn’t mind Boris’s feet on the table, he just wants something to yell about; Boris knows that too). Theo is like a storm sometimes; he is raging and loud—and other times he is like a summer day, the kinds in books—with soft sunshine and green grass. Boris has never seen this, but he can picture it in his mind’s eye. He doesn’t have to experience it to know the feeling; Theo is safe. Theo is light.

He is more real than anyone else. People here, in Vegas, live and then die. They do stupid things sometimes, yes. They make mistakes. But never have they lost mothers in explosions, and what could they possibly have to cry themselves to sleep at night about?

This is what Theo is doing now; crying. They are sitting at the pool, with their pants rolled up to mid-calf, moving their legs through the water. Boris is, anyway. Theo is still, like a statue. There are tears on his cheeks; plain to see, lit up from the bottom by fixtures underwater; cerulean in hue because of this—stark against his skin.

“Potter,” Boris whispers, trying not to startle him; because sometimes in moments like this, Theo stops seeing Boris; he stops seeing the world around them. His mind brings him back to awful, awful times. It takes him to those places Theo doesn’t like to revisit but does anyway, because he hates himself so much. Like a punishment, he re-lives instead of living. Being alive for Theo is sometimes like being in a prison—or maybe always this is so. He is never free. Chained up like that bird in his painting; weighed down by the iron fist of death and pain.

Theo does not even blink. Boris sets aside his bottle of Vodka—cheap garbage shit, really, they could have done better (the supermarket was crowded, though, and Theo rushed him)—and reaches out. He touches Theo’s shoulder.

Theo starts, sucking in a sharp breath. All at once this backyard, now, seems to crash down on him; like blinds being pulled up from his vision. He swallows hard, re-affirming his grip on the neck of his own bottle. “You say something?”

“You are drunk,” Boris observes. Red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks—like a slap on both sides. He flicks Theo on the side of the head, because this keeps happening. He is a lightweight; only takes a couple of bottles before he goes—slipping into that in-between place, where things happen and then disappear as soon as they are over, gone forever.

Theo shrugs. “What’s new?”

Yes, what is new. Theo is drunk and Boris is not yet they have had the same amount. Both should be drunk or sober, not this half and half business. Is no fair, really.

“Come,” Boris stretches, cat-like, and rises. He shakes off the moisture before offering his hand to Theo.

Theo stares at his palm, swaying slightly. Is no good sign, but it doesn’t worry Boris too bad; he’s seen worse.

“Where?”

“Bedroom,” Boris says. “You need to sleep it off.”

“I don’t wanna sleep,” Theo shakes his head, looking away, now. He raises the bottle to his lips and takes a long sip. “Makes me sad.”

“Everything makes you sad, _ty trakhayesh'sya_. Come to bed, Potter.”

Theo does not reply. He takes more drinks—one more, two more.

Boris bounces on the balls of his feet. He waits. There is nothing better to do. Watching Theo is most entertaining, anyway. The way he breathes, the way his fingers move—long and nimble, often quick. It is funny, the way he twitches his head to get the hair from his eyes. The way he cries like this, letting the tears fall like he cannot feel them, not making sounds, just letting it flow from him—that is magnificent to Boris. Looking at Theo is better than looking at anything. He is more exquisite than any work of art.

Theo finally stands, like Boris knew he would. Only he stumbles, slipping a little on the wet concrete. Boris is there to catch him, always. There to drape the solidness of his arm over his shoulders and carry half the weight.

They stumble through the darkened house and up the stairs. Boris has memorized the way by heart.

He nudges the door open with his hip and lays Theo on the bed—tries to be gentle, but Theo just lets himself fall. His body bounces with the mattress, moonlight spilling over his features—slatted from the blinds but still so striking; the way his jawline is illuminated, the curve of his neck shadowed. So pretty. Boris tries very hard to keep the image in mind. When he is old and grey he would like to die thinking about the way Theo looks now.

Then is when he sees it; the heaviness in Theo’s eyes, the weight. He is gazing up at Boris with something they both know well; longing. He wants—wants Boris? Wants more to drink? Wants what, who knows.

“I want you.”

 _Oh_.

Boris does not need to be told twice. He will do whatever for Theo. Never has he been so willing. Boris grew up getting called _upryamyy trakh_ , stubborn fuck, yes. Boris does what he wants, when he wants. Nothing for anyone.

Anything for Theo.

He kicks off his boots, working steadily at Theo’s shoes next. This routine is familiar; he removes their pants and their shirts, lays the covers over Theo, removes his specs, and climbs in next to him.

Only this time Theo does not roll over onto his side, to face the window. Instead he scoots closer to Boris, hot like a furnace. He smells like chlorine and sweat and weed. Is perfect. Makes Boris a little sleepy.

That goes away as soon as Theo touches him—that always ignites a fire in Boris; spreading from the spot, wherever, all across his skin. Head to toe, he feels himself get warm. He relaxes, falling deeper into the mattress. “Potter...”

“You’re beautiful,” Theo says.

All he wants is this; to always have Theo’s hand on his cheek, thumb brushing against the bone. To always be so close to him, to be called this.

Theo is drunk—so drunk. But there is something in his eyes that means this.

Boris is beautiful.

So is Theo; everything about him. His bad and his good, his confusion and chaos. His eyelashes, too—dark and longer than most boys, yes. They stand out so plainly. Theo is delicate and soft. Theo is perfect.

Boris loves him so much. He loves him like he has never loved anyone in all his life.

“ _Ya lyublyu tebya_ ,” Boris reaches out, fingers gingerly brushing the ends of Theo’s hair. He leans into the touch, eyes closing, lips quirking upward.

Boris kisses him. Maybe, yes, it is stupid. But it feels good. It feels like he could fall apart. It feels like Theo could break his heart and Boris would be glad he did so, because then at least Boris would know he cared.

Theo’s lips are soft and salty from his tears. They move against Boris’s, almost hungry—deepening the kiss with that yearning search for more. Then Theo is on top of Boris, completely.

Boris can’t breathe. Is too much. Everything he’s ever wanted and he is only learning it now. He sucks in air, but Theo gives him no time. More kissing, harder—so hard they both moan. Theo’s hands are in Boris’s hair, and it feels _neob"yasnimo zamechatel'nyy_. So good. The best thing.

Or maybe the best thing is Theo’s skin against his palms. Smooth, radiating that fire—like flames licking against Boris’s hands. They slip under Theo’s shirt like they were always meant to do just that.

“Off,” Theo whispers.

The shirt goes. Who will miss it?

Theo moves his lips down Boris’s neck, nipping and biting. This is like a dream to Boris; surreal, perfection. His teeth scrape his skin, his mouth tugs gently at Boris’s earlobe, and fuck that’s great.

Soon enough they are skin to skin; chest to chest. Taunt muscles, a roughness—harder than the way girls feel but better, too. Theo is easy to hold in his arms. He is somehow more responsive; gasping whenever Boris kisses him—lips or collarbone or neck. He moans when Boris does this hard enough to leave bruises (which is stupid, yes, so stupid—but Boris cannot think straight. All Theo, Theo, Theo).

“I love you.”

This is when Boris draws away. He is hovering over Theo, now, but he stops to just look; to take in Theo’s swollen lips and reddened face—his wide, blown eyes. Boris has never seen him like this. It is his favorite, now, though. Open and vulnerable and full of something.

Love.

_I love you._

Boris will hear this many times, on nights just like this one. Where Boris pours drink after drink and waits for this best Theo, they kiss instead of fucking, where their hands explore and their hearts explode. _I love you, Boris. I love you, I love you._

He will not hear it when it matters most, though. First kiss sober, the first one Theo remembers for always. It hovers in the air between them, something known. But Boris will never be one hundred percent sure—did he really love him always, or just when he was sad and drunk.

( _it was, of course, i love you_ )

Boris will never know this.

For now, he says it back. Is all he can do; tell the truth. They kiss, hard and rough, rolling over in the bed—who is on top and who is on the bottom, Boris loses track. Just him and Theo.

And in the morning, he wakes first. Theo is still draped over him—a long arm, tousled hair on his shoulder. Boris looks down at Theo and makes his decision, just in case.

When Theo wakes up, they are each on one side of the bed. He says nothing of the bruises on his neck, nothing of their kisses, nothing of his own words.

He says, “Get your fucking clothes off my floor, Boris.”

Nothing hurts more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this is my first work in this fandom and I’m like, so fucking nervous. Is it good? Is it terrible? 
> 
> Writing from Boris’s POV is so HARD. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!!!


End file.
